The sun was low on the sea, and wisps of fog roiled just offshore. Malcolm reclined sleepily in a hard wooden chair next to what remained of an aged scorpion high above the waves. The siege weapon, like most of the weapons on Tidehall’s seaward side, had been built when Malcolm was a child during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, but was now largely rotted away by disuse, time and salt. The chair, originally meant for the crewman aiming the weapon, was still serviceable, however.